


maybe Monday, maybe not

by breakbonefever



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Blind Date, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:18:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2315753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakbonefever/pseuds/breakbonefever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Blaine wants is to find a nice, reasonably attractive, twentysomething gay guy who will laugh at most of his jokes and hold his hand sometimes and not make fun of his sweater vests.  Is that really so much to ask?</p>
            </blockquote>





	maybe Monday, maybe not

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the klainebingo prompt _blind date_ , and also posted to [tumblr](http://breakbonefever.tumblr.com/post/97673930398/fic-maybe-monday-maybe-not).
> 
> I’m so happy I finally had an excuse to write this trope! I think it suits Klaine especially well, as canon has shown us that they are 1) soulmates and 2) lunatics who fixate on hot guys they barely know. (Spoilers…?)
> 
> Also, AMDA’s academic calendar is weird and not accurately represented in this story, but whatever, if RIB can dick around with the very fabric of time itself then so can I. At least I’m not about to pull some Goblin King shit to trap Blaine there for 10,000,000 years.

**AUGUST**

As with most of the bad decisions Blaine’s made in his life, this one starts with alcohol.

He and Sam decided to invite a bunch of people over for one last end-of-summer get-together. Blaine’s starting his last year at AMDA next week, and a lot of their friends’ semesters will be starting soon, too, which means they’ll all have less time to hang out like this, sprawled around his and Sam’s living room, arguing about whether Tony Stark is a better businessman than Bruce Wayne.

There was some talk of going out earlier, but at this point, they’re all several drinks in, and it looks like it’s going to be another long night of drinking games and falling asleep in uncomfortable positions on the floor.

At some point, the conversation somehow turns to Blaine’s love life – or lack thereof.

“Hang on, you haven’t done it since you and Kwame broke up?” Sam looks genuinely disturbed by this revelation. “That was before Christmas! How have you not, like, exploded? I can’t go a month without getting all crazy-eyed.”

“Oh, please, as if you’ve ever been single for more than a week,” Lily says, rolling her eyes. “You’re like the definition of serial monogamist.”

“You’d make a great lesbian,” Amber agrees.

Sam gestures dismissively at them, beer bottle tilting dangerously in his hand. “Focus, guys. You can make fun of me later. We’re doing Blaine right now.”

“Actually, nobody’s doing Blaine right now,” slurs Joe, and everyone cracks up while Blaine hides his face in a throw pillow and tries to will himself to disappear.

“Aww, baby, we’re just teasing,” Lily coos. She crawls over Joe’s legs and flops down at Blaine’s side, slinging an arm around him. “Nothing wrong with a little dry spell.”

“I thought gay guys were supposed to be all…you know…” Matt stumbles when he realizes he’s getting side-eyed by half the people in the room, including his girlfriend. “Whoa, I’m not – I mean, it’s two guys! That’s all I’m saying. Twice the downstairs brain, or whatever.”

“Congratulations, now you’re sexist _and_ homophobic,” says Julie. “Want to see if you can fit in some hipster racism, too, just to make sure you personally offend everyone here?”

“Our Blaine’s a romantic,” Lily says, clumsily patting his cheek.

“Can we please talk about something else?” Blaine asks desperately.

“Okay, just one more question,” Julie says. “So you don’t just want a hook-up, is the issue, right? You’re more of a relationship guy?” Blaine nods, resigned to seeing this through, and she pushes on: “Well, when’s the last time you went on a date?”

Blaine thinks about it. And thinks about it. “Uh…”

“You can’t even remember, can you,” Amber says. “Boy, you are too cute to be wasting away your twenties all alone.”

“She’s right, dude, you need to get out there,” Sam says. His face lights up. “Hey, maybe I can find someone for you! There’s tons of gay dudes at my agency.”

Blaine blanches. “Oh, Sam, I don’t think – “

“No, this is _perfect_.” Sam reaches over and claps him on the shoulder. “I’m your wingman, right? I got your back. Don’t even worry about it.”

“Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen,” Lily says. “I can’t wait.” She pushes herself to her feet, using Blaine’s shoulder as leverage. “I’m getting another drink. Anyone want anything?”

Blaine hands her his glass. “Something strong enough to make me forget this conversation ever happened, please.”

She bends down to press a wet, smacking kiss to his cheek. “Can do.”

+

Lily’s cocktail does the trick. By the next morning, when they’re all shuffling around holding their heads and arguing over who to send out for coffee, Blaine has almost managed to forget the whole embarrassing ordeal.

What little he does remember, he’s not too worried about. Sam comes up with a lot of big ideas while he’s drunk, and none of them ever pan out.

He figures that’s the end of it – and then, a few days later, he gets a series of texts in the middle of a piano lesson, one right after the other. His phone keeps vibrating against his leg, distracting him as he’s trying to correct Mackenzie’s hand posture.

He reads the texts after he’s sent Mackenzie on her way. They’re from Sam, of course.

_Got u a hottttt date 4 Friday nite!!!!_

_His names chase, ur gonna love him_

_He worked that CK job w me last month. Nice abs_

_Not as good as mine_

_But pretty good_

_He’s rly excited 2 meet u_

_So ur in rite??_

Blaine chews on his lip, unsure. His gut instinct is to say no. It feels strange, going on a date with some guy he’s never even met before. He’s not some charity case; he doesn’t need Sam to scrounge up a date for him. What if this Chase guy doesn’t really want to go out with him? Sam can be kind of pushy sometimes, especially if he thinks he’s helping someone out.

On the other hand, it _has_ been almost a year since he broke up with Kwame. Most of his friends are seeing someone, and it can be a little lonely sometimes, hanging out with all those couples. (And…quintuples? He’s not sure exactly what to call Julie’s situation.)

The fact is, he likes being in a relationship. He likes being somebody’s boyfriend, being one half of a whole, and despite what his friends might think, it’s (mostly) not about the sex. He likes having an excuse to buy flowers from the vendor near his apartment. He likes cuddling up to someone on the couch in front of a Dance Moms marathon with a bowl of popcorn. He likes lazy Sunday mornings in bed, and picnics at Central Park, and having a hand to hold on a brisk fall morning.

He likes being in love.

So it would be nice, finding someone. The problem is finding the _right_ someone, and he has no idea how to go about doing that.

Kwame asked him for his number after they both auditioned for the same part in an off-Broadway show. It made for a great meet-cute story, but he can’t base his whole dating strategy on accidentally beguiling his competition.

He’s definitely never getting involved with anyone from his program again; that’s a mistake he only needed to make once.

He gets hit on sometimes when he goes out dancing, but he’s not the kind of person to go home with a stranger or hook up in a back room, and most of those guys don’t seem interested in much beyond the shape of his ass. Which is fine – and appreciated, honestly. It’s not just for him.

There’s always online dating, but that seems weird and intimidating, especially here in the city. Lily once talked him into creating a profile on OkCupid, and he lasted about thirty minutes before getting overwhelmed and deleting it. The thought of signing up for Tinder (or worse, Grindr) makes him break out in a nervous sweat.

Which leaves him with Sam’s proposal. Maybe it’s not such a bad idea. After all, no one knows him better than his best friend. Why not let him play matchmaker, just this once?

Blaine takes a deep breath and texts back: _OK. I’m in._

It’s just a simple, low-pressure dinner with some hot guy Sam knows. How bad could it be?

+

_Date #1_

He arrives at Il Canarino a few minutes early. He’s been here once before, when his parents were visiting last spring. It’s a nice Italian place, a little classier than the diners and holes in the hall where he usually goes with friends, but not too expensive. He’s not quite sure who’s going to be paying tonight, since technically neither of them asked each other out, but as a general rule he never goes anywhere he couldn’t foot the whole bill if necessary.

They arranged to meet out front, so Blaine stands off to the side of the entrance, trying not to seem strange or suspicious. He trades a few texts with Sam, mostly assuring him that no, he didn’t wuss out, and yes, he’ll call if the date goes longer than expected.

“Blaine?”

Blaine looks up to see a tall, sandy-haired guy standing a few feet away, looking tentative. _Here goes._ He steels himself, and pulls out his best, brightest smile. “Hi! You must be Chase. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” says Chase, with an answering smile. His teeth are really white. Like, ridiculously white. Wow.

They shake hands. Chase has nice hands, though his grip is pretty weak. Blaine’s dad always says you can tell a lot about a person by their handshake. Ugh, okay, no thinking about his dad right now.

“So,” Blaine says, gesturing toward the restaurant entrance. “Shall we?”

“Might as well,” Chase says, which is…kind of weird? Maybe he’s trying to be funny. Blaine laughs, awkwardly, and holds the door open for Chase to walk inside.

It’ll be fine. It’ll be _fine_.

+

“So?” Sam demands, popping up over the back of the couch as Blaine walks in. “How’d it go? Are you in love yet? You can tell me, I won’t judge.”

Blaine makes a face and throws himself down on the couch. “He talked about himself the entire time. The _entire time_ , Sam. I never knew it was possible for someone to have that much to say about themselves. He barely even paused for breath.”

“What did he say?” Sam says. “Was he talking about his abs? Because seriously, they are not that great.”

“Oh, his abs, his triceps, his body-fat percentage, the calf implant surgery he’s considering, the new specially-designed food plan he’s on, which I’m pretty sure is basically just the diet Tom Hanks used to get ready for _Castaway_ – “

“Does that work?” Sam asks, intrigued.

“ _No_ , Sam,” Blaine says, pointing a finger in his face. He winces when he realizes what he’s done. “No more crazy fad diets. You’re perfect the way you are. And the whole apartment smelled like cabbage for a month last time.”

“Okay, okay, geez,” Sam says. He slouches down against the cushions, looking unhappy. “I’m sorry, man, I really thought you’d like him. I didn’t know he was such a tool.”

Now Blaine feels bad for complaining so much. Sam was just trying to help him out. “It wasn’t all bad,” he says. Sam looks at him dubiously, and he concedes: “Okay, it was pretty bad. But the food was good. And our waitress was nice.” In fact, by the time their entrées arrived, he had decided that he’d much rather be having dinner with her than with Chase.

“So really, the only problem was Chase himself,” Sam says slowly. “Right?”

“I guess,” Blaine says, wary.

His suspicions are confirmed when Sam continues, “The thing is, I know this other guy…”

Blaine groans. “Seriously? I just finished telling you how badly it went tonight. You want me to do that _again_?”

“Aww, come on. Are you really going to let one bad experience turn you off dating forever? That’s not the Blaine I know.”

Sam’s giving him that face, the “I expected better from you” face. Dammit. He _hates_ that face.

“Fine!” he sighs, dropping his head back against the couch. “One more date. Just one.”

“All right!” Sam goes in for a fistbump, which Blaine can’t not return. “You won’t regret this. I have a good feeling about this guy.”

+

_Date #2_

And so, four days later, Blaine finds himself back at Il Canarino, sitting across from Sam’s second attempt, Marco.

They have the same waitress Blaine had last time, a cheerful blonde named Dani. He hopes she doesn’t remember him. It’s kind of embarrassing that he’s come here twice in under a week on what are very obviously first dates.

Blaine can’t quite figure out what to make of Marco. He’s extremely handsome, unsurprisingly, and he definitely doesn’t talk about himself as much as Chase did. In fact, he doesn’t talk much at all. Blaine ends up having to carry the conversation more or less single-handedly, which leads to some awkward lulls when he runs out of questions to ask and anecdotes to share.

Marco gives brief answers to Blaine’s questions and doesn’t ask anything in return. He checks his phone several times, and apparently prefers staring down at the blank white tablecloth to making eye contact. He gives off a general air of discomfort, like he doesn’t know how he got here or what he’s supposed to be saying. Maybe he hasn’t dated in a while. Maybe he was raised by wolves and is still getting the hang of human interaction.

Blaine is toying with his pasta, trying to come up with something to break the silence they’ve been sitting in since their food arrived, when Marco suddenly sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. “This is so fucking awkward.”

Blaine is taken aback. He’s been thinking the same thing, but it seems a little rude to say it out loud.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Marco says. “I’m sure you’re a nice guy. I’m just not really into…all this.” He gestures vaguely in Blaine’s direction, nose wrinkled up like he’s smelled something unpleasant.

Blaine looks down at himself, confused. He looks okay; he hasn’t spilled sauce on himself or anything. His outfit is a little basic, maybe, but neat and inoffensive, just a nice blue plaid button-down with a dark purple bowtie.

“All what, exactly?” he asks uncertainly.

Marco looks annoyed that he has to spell it out. “No offense, but I like my men a little more, you know, manly.”

Blaine sits back abruptly in his chair. “ _Excuse_ me?”

“Come on, the theater stuff? The clothes? The _bowtie_?” Marco rolls his eyes. “You’re basically a walking stereotype.”

Immediately, Blaine is struck by the completely irrational urge to defend himself. _I like football!_ he wants to shout. _I box! I could kick your ass at Call of Duty! Girls hit on me all the time!_

But that’s all kind of beside the point, isn’t it? It’s just buying into the same stupid binary, the one that made his dad think rebuilding a car would somehow turn him straight. The fact is, it doesn’t matter how he dresses, or what his hobbies are, or whether or not he “seems” gay. None of that makes him any more or less of a man.

And more importantly, this jerk doesn’t deserve to know anything about him.

Blaine folds his napkin and places it neatly next to his plate, then stands up to leave. He pulls out his wallet and tosses a few bills down on the table, enough to cover his meal and a nice tip. “Goodbye, Marco,” he says. There are a dozen pointed comments on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be unleashed, but instead he just walks away, head held high.

 _He_ , at least, knows how to behave like a gentleman.

+

“Jesus, what an asshole,” Lily says, sounding suitably outraged on his behalf.

Joe nods sympathetically. “Sounds like that guy has some serious issues.” He pops the cap off a bottle of cider and pushes it across the table.

Blaine takes it gratefully. Maybe if he drinks enough, he can wash away the dull ache of embarrassment from being dismissed as…what? Too preppy? Not masculine enough? Too _gay_?

Lily reaches over and rubs his arm. “Don’t let him get to you, baby. You’re a catch. If I had the parts, I’d totally date you.”

“She would,” Joe confirms. “Her mother would be thrilled.”

“Well, maybe you should stop trying to antagonize her,” Lily says, and the conversation veers off to the ongoing battle of wills between Joe and Lily’s parents. It’s a familiar topic, as well-worn and predictable as an old favorite movie, and for a while, Blaine manages to forget the misery of his own love life.

Later, when they’re all pleasantly tipsy, Joe says, “Listen, Blaine, no pressure or anything, but there’s this guy at work…”

“ _Brent_?” Lily interrupts, incredulous. “If you even think about setting him up with Brent, I’m tossing this ring out the window. He’s a total skeez.”

“No, not Brent,” Joe says. “Peter. You know, the blond guy with the hipster glasses. I think he’s bi.”

Lily purses her lips, thoughtful. “He’s kind of short.”

“So’s Blaine.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Blaine reminds them.

“You’re sure he’s bi?” Lily asks, ignoring Blaine entirely.

“He’s mentioned his ex-boyfriend a couple times,” Joe says. “And he really likes Adam Lambert.”

“All right, ask him,” Lily says. “Just make sure he doesn’t show up in one of those ugly sweaters. Blaine deserves better than those sweaters.”

“Do I get a say in this?” Blaine asks.

“Nope,” Lily says cheerfully. “But you’ll like him. If nothing else, he’s definitely nicer than the jack-offs Sam’s been picking for you.”

+

_Date #3_

As promised, Peter is very nice. He shows up right on time, and holds the door open for Blaine when they go inside. He’s polite to their server (not Dani this time, thank god), which Blaine always takes as a good sign. He asks Blaine the right questions and listens attentively when he talks. So far, so good.

He’s not someone who would catch Blaine’s eye on the street, but he’s attractive in a very normal kind of way, with thick black-framed glasses and a carefully trimmed beard. That’s just fine by Blaine. He’s had his fill of models recently.

They make pleasant conversation all through dinner, nothing too exciting or personal, but miles better than either of Blaine’s previous dates.

The only problem is, Blaine is feeling zero chemistry. _None._

He’s a little irritated at himself. Peter is cute, respectful, funny, and about a hundred times more likable than either Chase or Marco. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with him, and yet Blaine can’t work up the slightest bit of excitement over the prospect of seeing him again, or even kissing him at the end of the night.

With his previous boyfriends, there was always a spark, right from the beginning. Sebastian had him flustered and blushing within minutes of introducing himself. Jon looked so good when he arrived to pick him up for their first date that they ended up making out in his dorm room for half an hour, and totally missed the movie they were supposed to go to.

Hell, that first Friday night dinner with Kwame turned into an entire weekend together. It wasn’t even about the sex, although that was admittedly fantastic; they just couldn’t get enough of each other’s company.

Blaine can’t imagine spending the weekend with Peter. He can’t imagine doing _anything_ with Peter. He likes him, the way he likes most people, but he wouldn’t be particularly upset if they went their separate ways after tonight and never saw each other again.

They end up splitting the check. As they’re waiting for their cards, Blaine tentatively suggests going for drinks – maybe alcohol will help? – and feels guilty about how relieved he is when Peter graciously turns him down, citing an early wake-up the next morning.

They leave the restaurant together, and Peter politely offers to walk him to the subway station. Once they get there, they linger awkwardly near the top of the stairs, both of them clearly uncertain about what happens next. Should they kiss? Hug? Peck on the cheek? What’s the appropriate way to say good night to someone you had a fine-but-not-spectacular date with?

Blaine agonizes for a few long seconds, and finally decides to go for it. There’s only one way to know for sure whether there’s any hope of chemistry between them, so he leans in, giving Peter plenty of time to move away if he wants to, and presses their lips together.

It’s not terrible. Peter’s lips are thin and warm, slightly dry. His beard is scratchy against Blaine’s chin. Blaine’s hands hang limply at his sides. Normally he might bring one up to cup his partner’s jaw, but that feels like the wrong thing to do here.

Peter’s glasses are digging into his cheek, so he tries to adjust their angle, only for their noses to bump together. He’s hyperaware of his breathing, for some reason.

He’s never felt so self-conscious kissing someone before. Kissing is supposed to be _easy_. He loves it, and he thinks he’s pretty good at it; he’s definitely never had any complaints. But this doesn’t feel like any kiss he’s shared with a boyfriend, or even the handful of times he’s made out with guys at parties or bars. This feels more like a bad stage kiss, lifeless and uncomfortable. It’s the way he imagines kissing a girl would feel: all of the awkwardness, none of the desire.

There’s just nothing there.

Maybe Blaine is asking for too much. After all, just because he’s always fallen fast and hard doesn’t mean that’s the only way it can happen. Should he give it another date? Maybe there _could_ be something between them, if they just gave it time.

He pulls back, still not sure what he’s going to say. Peter blinks at him, his face unreadable in the dim light. Did he hate it? Did he _like_ it? Would he even want Blaine to ask him out again?

“I think – “ Blaine starts, just as Peter is saying, “Maybe we – “

They both laugh, dispelling some of the awkwardness. Peter offers him a lopsided smile. “You either, huh?”

Blaine ducks his head, not sure whether he’s more embarrassed or relieved. “I’m sorry, you seem like such a great guy – “

“So do you,” Peter says. “Really. It looks like we’re just not great for each other, that’s all.”

“That’s a good line,” Blaine says.

Peter chuckles. “You can steal it, if you want.” He holds out his hand. “No hard feelings?”

They shake hands, and then Peter turns and walks away, hands tucked into his pants pockets. Blaine watches him go, a little wistful.

So much for _nice_.

+

The day after his dud of a date with Peter, Blaine wakes up groggy and out of sorts. He feels vaguely hungover, though he only had one drink last night. He hopes he’s not getting sick.

He runs through his morning routine the same as always, but somehow it takes longer than usual, and he has to skip breakfast and shout a hasty goodbye to Sam as he runs out the door. He misses the bus anyway, and arrives a couple minutes late for his first lesson. Fortunately, his student isn’t upset, but it still throws him off, especially when he realizes that he forgot his travel mug on the counter at home. As much as he loves teaching, it’s going to be miserable with the headache he can already feel starting to pounding at his temples.

He manages to grab coffee on the way to class, which helps his headache, but he can’t seem to shake the funk that’s settled over him. He feels like there’s a raincloud following him around all day.

His throat is a little scratchy, and his vocal instructor calls him out on it, admonishing him to get more sleep and take better care of his instrument. The salad he buys for lunch is limp and unappealing, and he ends up throwing half of it out, which is probably going to come back to bite him in the ass when his blood sugar plummets in the middle of dance class.

On top of everything, he never got a callback from that audition he went on last week, and he’s pretty sure Jean Baptiste did, which means he’s going to be completely insufferable. Well, more so than usual, anyway.

The only bright spot of his whole day is walking into Starbucks after his last class (where at least he didn’t pass out in the middle of a combo) and seeing GQ standing in line.

GQ is almost certainly not his real name. It’s just what Blaine calls him in his head, because _the most perfect man on the face of the planet_ is kind of wordy. He doesn’t see him here very often, maybe once a month at most, but the infrequency of GQ’s appearances has done nothing to diminish Blaine’s schoolboy crush on him.

He’s just _gorgeous_ , with flawless pale skin and a perfect upsweep of thick chestnut hair, and these big, bright blue eyes that make Blaine’s stomach flip over every time the guy looks anywhere near him. He’s tall and lean, with legs that go on forever, and his outfits are consistently incredible. He always looks like he just walked off the set of a photo shoot, inventively styled and perfectly tailored. Blaine is almost as enthralled by GQ’s wardrobe as he is by the way his butt looks in those fitted pants.

Almost.

He once made the mistake of mentioning his silly Starbucks crush to Sam, who socked him hard in the shoulder and told him to man up and ask the guy out the next time he saw him. “Why the hell not? The worst he can do is say no. Which he won’t, because you’re all…you.”

It’s nice to know his best friend is so confident that he can ensnare anyone he sets his sights on, but no, nope, no way. Never going to happen. For one thing, he doesn’t exactly have a great track record with asking out cute guys in public. He still can’t walk past a Gap without blushing to the roots of his hair.

More importantly, if GQ is even gay – which, okay, he probably is, but Blaine doesn’t like to assume – there’s no way he’s single. How could he be? He must have a ridiculously hot boyfriend, some tall muscular Adonis who speaks four languages and always remembers to bring home flowers on their anniversary.

Anyway, Blaine’s pretty sure GQ isn’t even aware of his existence, which might be for the best. He usually stops in for coffee after his dance class, so unless GQ has a fetish for gross, smelly guys in sweat pants and old sneakers, he probably wouldn’t be particularly impressed.

It’s not that Blaine thinks of himself as some hideous cave troll, or anything. He knows that he’s decently good-looking: he takes care of himself, he dresses well (no matter what Marco thinks), and he’s figured out how to accentuate his best features while minimizing the things he’s insecure about. He’s landed some pretty hot guys in the past, so he has to be doing something right.

But part of maturing into an almost-adult has been learning to recognize his limitations. He’s not always going to be the right fit for a part; hard work isn’t always enough to get him what he wants; and, like it or not, some guys are simply out of his league. GQ is one of them.

It can’t hurt to _look_ , though, right? It’s kind of nice knowing that someone that amazing exists in the world, especially after the disappointing dates he’s been on recently.

GQ is only a couple spots in front of him in line today. It’s probably a good thing there’s a woman in between them. Blaine isn’t sure exactly what he might say if he were within speaking range of the guy he’s spent so long admiring from afar, but he’s not sure he trusts himself enough to find out.

The line moves along quickly, and soon GQ is up at the register. Blaine can’t quite hear his order – not that’s he’s listening for it – but he can just make out the sound of his voice, high and clear. Even his voice is amazing.

A minute later, it’s Blaine’s turn to order. He decides to treat himself to a caramel macchiato. Usually he just gets the house blend, but he’s feeling so dull and gloomy today that he may as well indulge his sweet tooth.

He shuffles down the bar to wait for his drink. GQ is still waiting, gazing down at something on his phone. Blaine wonders what he’s looking at. Email, probably, or maybe a romantic text from his perfect boyfriend. Whatever it is, it’s made his face soften a little, and oh, god, he is so unbelievably beautiful that Blaine can’t even look at him.

 _Shouldn’t_ look at him, in fact. This guy’s a total stranger, and Blaine is definitely crossing the line into creeper territory. He glances quickly away and pretends to study a travel mug display, hoping no one caught him staring.

Still, he can’t stop himself from listening to the orders the baristas are calling out. It’d be nice to have a name for him, at least, so he can stop thinking about him as GQ.

A trio of frappuccinos for the girls who have been waiting since Blaine got here. A latte for the man in front of GQ. And then, finally, the pink-haired barista slides a cup across the pick-up counter and calls, “Grande non-fat mocha for Carly!”

Blaine frowns. That can’t be right. Then again, the staff at this store seem to be particularly bad with names. He’s personally gotten cups labeled with everything from _Lang_ to _Barry_ to _James_. Once, they just wrote _Eyebrows_.

GQ doesn’t bat an eyelash, just plucks his coffee off the counter and sweeps regally away. His phone rings as he reaches the door, and Blaine can hear that high, pretty voice saying, “Isabelle, hi, I’m just…” as he pushes through the door and disappears from Blaine’s life for another month.

“Caramel macchiato for Brain!”

Blaine sighs and steps forward to grab his drink. Sugar may not be the healthiest way to cheer himself up, but it’s never let him down before.

+

**SEPTEMBER**

“So there’s this guy…” are rapidly becoming Blaine’s four least favorite words in the English language.

Apparently, his friends have decided that this is A Thing. After months of quiet, peaceful singledom, Blaine is suddenly having prospective suitors pushed on him from all directions. All of a sudden, everyone he knows seems to have a single gay classmate, or coworker, or neighbor, or a guy they met at a bar who was _really_ cool, Blaine, you’ll love him. (Blaine turns that one down. He does have some standards.)

It’s kind of dizzying. In less than a month, Blaine has gone from not dating at all to having dinner with at least two guys a week, all of them perfect strangers. He rejects a few of the more out-there offers, but for the most part, his friends are insistent. How will he ever meet the man of his dreams if he doesn’t even try? And what better way to find that perfect match than with the help of people who know and love him?

Personally, Blaine thinks they’re all just gunning for the bragging rights if he ends up with “their” pick – although the way things have been going, that’s not going to be happening anytime soon.

+

_Date #5_

“So you’re part Asian, right?” asks Derek (24, freelance tutor, bandmate of one of Julie’s girlfriends).

“Uh, yeah,” Blaine says, wondering where this is going. “My mom’s family is Filipino.”

“That’s great,” Derek says earnestly. “I’m, like, _really_ into that.”

Blaine has no idea what’s going on right now. “Into…what?”

Derek grins, and lowers his voice a little, like they’re sharing a secret. “You know. Asian guys.”

Blaine reaches for his drink.

+

_Date #7_

Daud (21, political science major at Columbia, someone’s friend’s ex-roommate) seems like a decent guy. He reminds Blaine a little of Wes, tall and slim and serious-looking. He’s clearly quite smart, and he’s very comfortable talking about his studies.

He’s also _boring_. So boring that Blaine can’t even feign interest in what he’s talking about (which is really saying something, because he used to perform regularly at nursing homes). So boring that he can barely keep his eyes open. So boring that he orders a coffee at nine o’clock at night, because he’s genuinely worried that he’s going to fall asleep right into his cavatelli.

So boring that before they’ve even finished eating, while Daud is distracted looking up something about the Schengen Agreement on his phone, Blaine makes desperate eye contact with their waiter, who nods and immediately brings over the check.

Blaine tips him an extra five dollars out of sheer gratitude.

+

Maybe he needs to adjust his approach. Some of his friends have recommended switching to midday coffee dates, or at least agreeing to meet just for drinks instead of dinner.

 _It’s less pressure, so you’ll both be more relaxed_ , writes Thad, who dated around for a while before meeting his current girlfriend last year. _Dinner dates have a certain gravity attached to them, but coffee is just coffee. (And I know how you feel about coffee, Warbler Blaine.)_

“It’s the perfect system. If you like the guy, you can still have dinner after, but you can make up some excuse and bolt if he turns out to be a dickhead,” says Lily, with her usual delicacy.

They’re both right, of course. It would be a lot easier to escape from a casual meet-up at a coffee shop or bar, and it would definitely be less expensive than a full meal. But dinner at Il Canarino kind of feels like a litmus test now. If he can’t stomach sixty minutes of sitting across a table from someone, they’re probably not meant to be. Surely there’s a man out there who can make friendly conversation for an hour without hitting on the waiter (#6), or saying something inexcusably transphobic (#9), or sneaking off to snort coke in the bathroom (also #9 – seriously, he could kill Matt).

Honestly, Blaine doesn’t feel like he’s being unduly choosy. All he wants is a nice, reasonably attractive, twentysomething gay guy who will laugh at most of his jokes and hold his hand sometimes and not make fun of his sweater vests. Is that really so much to ask?

+

_Date #12_

His date with Ted (25, MBA student, went to high school with Amber) is basically fine. Ted is nice enough, not quite as funny as he thinks he is, but harmless. At least he’s not constantly checking his phone, like the last guy Blaine had dinner with.

Ted knows a lot about wine, and orders them a fairly pricey bottle of red to complement their entrées. “It’s on me,” he says, and then adds, a little patronizingly: “You’ll like it, I promise. It’s sweet.”

(Blaine only has a couple small glasses. He’s learned the hard way that he can’t have more than one or two drinks per hour without embarrassing himself.)

The food is good; the conversation is mediocre. All in all, it feels like a repeat of Peter: not terrible, but decidedly underwhelming. Blaine’s pretty sure he’s going to skip the kiss this time.

On the bright side, they have Dani as their server, which is always a pleasure. She’s as friendly and efficient as ever, and does an excellent job pretending she’s never seen Blaine before in her life. Blaine wonders if she’s an actress.

Ted seems to be as fond of her bubbly cheer as Blaine is. He makes a point of chatting with her every time she comes by, addressing her by name and thanking her when she refills their glasses.

“Thanks so much, Dani,” he says, smiling warmly at her when she swings by at the end of the night to pick up the check, which he insisted on paying himself. “You were a wonderful server. Really terrific.”

Blaine is struck by a sudden feeling of unease. There’s a faint, blurry memory teasing at the back of his mind: his ex-boyfriend Jon sprawled out on the couch, feet in Blaine’s lap, exhausted after a long shift and complaining bitterly about – god, what did he call them? _Verbal tips._ Compliments in place of cash. Jon despised those customers, even more than regular bad tippers.

“Thank you, sir,” Dani says, with her usual bright grin. She doesn’t seem at all fazed by the praise, and Blaine wonders if he’s overreacting. Maybe Ted is just a really appreciative guy.

It’s probably nothing. It couldn’t hurt to check, though. Just in case.

Ted goes to the bathroom just before they leave, and Blaine takes the opportunity to catch Dani again as she’s on her way past with an armful of check holders.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know how to ask this without being rude, but my – the guy I’m with, did he tip?” he asks nervously.

Dani studies him for a moment, her face perfectly composed. After a few seconds, her mouth tilts into a wry little half-smile. She pulls out a check holder from the middle of the stack and flips it open, holding it out for him to see.

$6.23. Not even 10 percent.

Blaine winces and fumbles for his wallet. “I am so sorry. Please don’t, like, spit in my food the next time I’m here.”

“That’s an urban legend, sir,” Dani says dutifully. “The staff here at Il Canarino would never tamper with a customer’s meal.”

Blaine is pretty sure that’s not entirely true. There’s something about that waitress with the long nails that suggests she wouldn’t hesitate to poison someone if she thought they deserved it. Oh, she’s mostly very professional, like all the servers here, but Blaine has caught glimpses of a death glare that could strip paint off a wall. Thank god he’s never been seated in her section.

“Well, anyway, I’m sorry,” he says. He presses a twenty into Dani’s hand.

“Thank you, sir,” she says. She slips the check holder back into the stack, and then, surprisingly, touches Blaine lightly on the shoulder. “Hey, better luck next time, huh?”

It’s the first time any of the servers has acknowledged the elephant in the room. If it had to happen, he’s glad it was Dani, who has never been anything but kind to him.

He gives her a weak smile. “Yeah. Thanks, Dani.”

+

In between dates, life goes on.

Blaine’s days are a blur of classes and rehearsals, piano lessons and homework and trying not to fall asleep on the subway. He goes on auditions, plays video games with Sam, stays up too late and gets up way too early. He drinks a few too many cocktails and sugar-laden coffees, and starts jogging again to counteract the effect on his waistline. He calls his parents every Sunday.

The weather is getting chillier every day, so he switches to his winter moisturizers and buys a couple new sweaters. He drags Lily to the park, ostensibly to admire the changing leaves, though they mostly end up discussing which strangers’ scarves they covet and which they’d like to burn.

He sees GQ again at Starbucks, looking divine in tight houndstooth-print pants and a vest that hugs his slender waist just right. He’s doing something a little different with his hair. It’s probably weird that Blaine notices.

Blaine has great friends, a busy social calendar, more rewarding hobbies and extracurriculars than he knows what to do with. He’s happy with his life. He’d just be a little happier if he could find someone to share it with.

+

**OCTOBER**

_Date #14_

Patrick (22, senior at NYU, lives down the hall from the girl Sam’s probably about to break up with) spends almost the entire date dropping badly veiled innuendo and trying to feel Blaine up under the table.

Blaine refuses to speak to Sam for two days.

+

It’s probably a mistake to keep coming back to the same restaurant. The staff at Il Canarino must think he’s completely pathetic. Mercifully, though, they never say anything. Aside from Dani’s gentle comment the other week, none of the servers have ever given any indication that they recognize him, much less that he’s been turning up a couple times a week for months now with a different guy each time.

Maybe that’s why he keeps coming back here. If he’s going to humiliate himself in front of a series of strangers, he may as well do it at a place with discreet waitstaff.

Recently, he’s even kind of gotten the impression that the staff have his back. The hostesses always seat him at a well-positioned table, not too close to the kitchen or the restrooms, and that night’s server usually swings by within just a couple minutes to collect drink orders, no matter how busy they are.

Then there’s the fact that things seem to move along a little faster when he’s having an especially bad date, almost as if they’re trying to help him escape. His entire dinner with Grabby Hands Patrick clocked in at under just forty minutes – a new record.

It’s not until his date with Jeremy (27, friend of Thad’s older brother, does something horrifically boring involving hedge funds – Blaine’s parents would love him) that he comes to fully appreciate the value of staying on the servers’ good side.

+

_Date #17_

Ironically, the evening starts off as one of the better dates Blaine has had recently. Jeremy is handsome and well-dressed, maybe even a little over-dressed for this restaurant. (A refreshing change of pace after Blaine’s last date, who reeked of pot smoke and looked like he’d thrown on the first clothes he picked up off the floor.) He insists on pulling Blaine’s chair out for him, and compliments his cardigan with convincing sincerity.

“Brooks Brothers, right?” he asks casually. “It looks great on you.”

Okay, that earns him a few points. Blaine has never claimed to be immune to flattery.

They chat pleasantly about the menu, which Blaine pretends to not have memorized. Then it’s on to the usual first-date questions: backgrounds, interests, what brought them to New York. Jeremy is easy to talk to, and charming in a preppy, old money kind of way; Blaine is not at all surprised when he mentions in passing that he “went to school in Boston.”

By the time their drinks arrive, Blaine is feeling cautiously optimistic about tonight. It’s been a long time since he’s hit it off with someone right away.

Still, he can’t shake the sense that there’s something amiss. Not with his date, for once – Jeremy is being perfectly cordial – but, strangely enough, with their waitress.

In all the time Blaine has been coming to Il Canarino, he’s never seen any of the staff treat a customer with anything less than perfect courtesy. Even scary long nails waitress only glares at people from a distance.

And Abigail isn’t _rude_ , exactly. She sounds a little mechanical when she recites the specials, but she’s a pretty recent hire, Blaine thinks. Maybe she’s just nervous.

After they’ve placed their orders, though, he notices that even the other servers are shooting glances their way: some curious, some almost wary. Dani doesn’t seem to be around tonight, but Blaine manages to catch the eye of another waiter he knows, Alex, who quickly turns away, looking vaguely guilty.

Dread settles cold and heavy in his stomach. Something’s not right.

The next time Abigail comes back, waved over by Jeremy so he can order another whiskey sour, Blaine studies her reactions carefully. It doesn’t take him long to realize that there’s something familiar about her tight, uncomfortable smile, the awkward way she pretends to laugh at Jeremy’s seemingly harmless attempt at a joke. It’s a façade of forced civility, one that says: _I am not getting paid enough to put up with this asshole._

Blaine grew up spending whole summers at his parents’ country club. He _knows_ that look.

He excuses himself to the restroom a few minutes later, while they’re still waiting for their entrées, and corners Abigail back by the doors to the kitchen.

“What’s wrong with him?” he demands.

She looks at him blankly, the picture of confused innocence. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, for god’s sake, rookie, don’t lie to him,” says Scary Waitress, who has appeared out of nowhere. She elbows poor Abigail aside and grips Blaine’s arm, nails biting into his skin. “Listen up, hair gel: you’re not the only lonely gay with the bright idea to audition his victims here. Your date’s a regular, and he’s got some serious anger management issues. He’ll be nice enough until he gets a few more drinks in him, and then bam, out comes Mr. Hyde. The last guy he brought here threw a scalding coffee in his face. People _clapped_.”

“Oh my god,” Blaine says weakly.

“I don’t know how he even got seated tonight,” she continues. “He’s a mean drunk, and he _always_ ends up drunk. And no offense, Rainbow Brite, but you don’t exactly seem like the cappuccino-slinging type. If I were you, I’d run for the hills.”

“Okay,” Blaine says, no hesitation. Wheels are already spinning in his head. He’ll have to text Sam and beg him to call with a fake emergency. It’s not the most elegant plan, and he hates lying, but how else is he going to get himself out of this?

Scary Waitress – Santana, according to her nametag – snaps her fingers at Abigail, interrupting her as she’s trying to slink away. “Rookie! Go tell Wall Street that his date has come down with an unfortunate bout of stomach flu, and we’ve called him a cab. Get descriptive if you need to, but don’t let the other customers hear you. And cover my tables.” She yanks on Blaine’s arm. “Come on, I’ll take you out the back.”

Thirty seconds later, they’re pushing out of a heavy metal door into a dark, cramped alley. Blaine’s heart is pounding like he’s just run a mile, or like he’s trying to escape a horde of zombies instead of a trust fund kid with an alcohol problem. Thankfully, it’s an unseasonably mild night and he chose not to wear a coat over his sweater. Otherwise he’d have to wait until Jeremy left to rescue it from their table.

He looks over at his rescuer; she’s busy examining her nails, which probably have little spots of his blood on them. Seriously, they’re like _talons_. “Not that I’m not grateful, but…why are you helping me?”

“That guy’s a nightmare. The sooner we can boot him out the door, the better.” Santana shrugs. “Besides, my girlfriend has a soft spot for you. She’d kill me if I let you get reamed out by that asshole.”

“Oh,” Blaine says, not quite sure how to respond to that. “Well, um, thanks. Thank you so much, Santana. Really.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, waving him off. “Thank me with your wallet next time you’re in my section. Now scram. I have a four-top of boozy tourists that are going to be calling for my head if I don’t get them their martinis soon.”

She disappears back through the door, and Blaine turns and heads toward the street, maneuvering his phone out of his pocket as he goes. Lily is going to _love_ this one.

+

**NOVEMBER**

After that dodged bullet, Blaine decides to slow down on the dates for a while. Jeremy served as a powerful reminder that, really, he doesn’t know _anything_ about these men he’s agreeing to meet. His friends may be arranging the dates on his behalf, but they don’t directly know most of the guys either. (Thad has apologized profusely and promised to have a strong word with his brother about the company he keeps.)

With Jeremy, the staff just happened to know them both, and for whatever reason decided they liked Blaine enough to intervene. He won’t always be so lucky. If he keeps burning through so many guys at the rate he’s been going, odds are he’s going to end up with some whackos. He isn’t swearing off dating entirely, but he definitely has to be more selective.

Anyway, it’s not like he doesn’t have other things to occupy his time. It’s getting to the point in the semester where he just wants to lie down in a dark room and not get up for a few hundred years. He’s tired all the time, oscillating between foot-dragging exhaustion and over-caffeinated restlessness. Most days, he’s busy from the moment he gets up in the morning until whatever time he manages to crawl into bed.

What precious free time he does have is much better spent with friends than strangers, and even that dwindles as his rehearsal schedule ramps up and he starts surviving almost entirely on coffee and willpower. On the increasingly rare occasions he manages to get over to Lily and Joe’s, he usually ends up passed out on their couch before 9:00 PM, and by the week before Thanksgiving break, even Sam has a hard time dragging him out of the apartment on Saturday night.

+

“Come _on_ ,” Sam says. He’s been trying to convince Blaine to come out with him with several minutes now, and he’s starting to get sort of whiny. “We haven’t gone to karaoke in forever. This place has a piano and everything. You’ll love it.”

Despite himself, Blaine perks up a little. “It’s a piano bar?”

Sam nods enthusiastically. “It’s mostly NYADA students, but Mel and her friends can totally get us in.”

“Mel, huh?” Blaine hasn’t met the latest object of Sam’s affections, though he’s heard plenty about her. “So it’s going well?”

“Super well,” Sam says. “But that’s why you have to come with me! You play piano, and you know all that theater stuff. Those NYADA girls will love you.”

“Which will free Mel to be wooed by your incredible charm and spot-on impressions,” Blaine guesses.

“And my biceps,” Sam adds. He flexes them a little, craning his head to look at himself in the mirror. “They look good, right? Should I wear a different shirt?”

Blaine laughs, finally conceding defeat. “You look great, and you know it. All right, let’s go. Two hours, that’s all I’m promising.”

“Yes!” Sam pumps his fist. “This is gonna be awesome. And hey, who knows, you might even meet some hot drama student.”

Blaine groans. “ _No_ , Sam. No matchmaking. We’re just going to go and sing and have a good time, okay? Those are my terms.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam says agreeably. He flops onto Blaine’s bed to wait while Blaine picks out an outfit. “I’m just saying, you _could_ meet somebody.” He grins. “Maybe then you wouldn’t need to come begging to me to find you a date.”

Blaine throws a shirt at his head.

+

Sam is right: Blaine does love the bar. It’s intimate without feeling cramped, unlike a lot of places in the city. The décor is laid-back, but not in a grungy or self-consciously ironic way; he especially likes the blanket of multicolored lights draped from the ceiling. And of course, the piano is beautiful.

Blaine was a little wary about venturing into a NYADA hot spot, as the rivalry between NYADA and AMDA can be tactfully called “intense,” but Mel and her friends are wonderfully friendly and welcoming. They’re mostly sophomores, and they ask him lots of questions about his program , the auditions he’s been on, the roles he’s gotten.

When they find out he plays, they insist on getting him up on stage. He accompanies Mel and Natalie on a great cover of _Alone_ – Mel in particular has a fantastic, belting voice that suits the song perfectly – and then he and Sam tackle _Heroes_ , an old favorite.

The bartenders are liberal with their pours, and it’s not long before Blaine is feeling pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. He chats easily with Mel’s friends, discussing the latest Rachel Berry project (he’s a fan, but as NYADA students, the girls have conflicted feelings about her) and taking every opportunity to talk Sam up as subtly as he can manage.

He’s no less tired than he was a couple hours ago, but overall, he’s really glad Sam talked him into coming out tonight.

A while later, he finds his way back to the piano. He’s a little tipsy and feeling nostalgic, so he launches into a spirited, whimsical rendition of _Teenage Dream_. He hears a whoop from Sam, scattered laughter from other corners of the bar. One person boos, and is quickly shushed. Blaine isn’t worried; this song has never failed him before. Granted, it’s not quite the same without the Warblers behind him, but it’s so _fun_ , and most of the people here are just the right age to appreciate it.

He’s glancing out at the crowd, gauging their enthusiasm, when he suddenly catches sight of a familiar face.

A familiar, pale, perfect face.

Holy shit.

GQ is here. GQ is here, and _looking right at him_ , and Blaine –

Blaine forgets the words.

His voice dies between one line and the next, even as his hands keep moving, picking out the right notes without conscious thought. He never forgets the words to songs, especially not ones he’s performed before. But GQ is watching him, _smiling_ at him, and he just – he can’t –

It’s not until GQ’s smile fades, brow furrowing, that Blaine is able to tear his eyes away and refocus his attention on the music. He sketches a few measures to cover his mistake and transition into the second verse, then throws himself back into singing with everything he has: “ _We drove to Cali, and got drunk on the beach…_ ”

Thankfully, Katy comes through for him again. By the final chorus, he’s won over the crowd, despite his earlier fumble. A few of the drunker people are even singing along, wailing out the last few lines with him before breaking into raucous, enthusiastic applause.

He sneaks another look at GQ as he stands up from the bench. On second glance, he can see that GQ is sitting with another guy, who must be his (predictably tall and gorgeous) boyfriend. As Blaine watches, Boyfriend leans over and says something in GQ’s ear, and GQ laughs and shoves at his arm. It’s hard to tell in this light, but it kind of looks like he’s blushing.

Blaine is actually going to die.

He stumbles down from the stage and walks right into Sam, who pulls him in for a massive hug. “Dude, that was great! You killed it.”

Blaine leans into the hug, gripping at Sam’s back to keep himself standing. He can’t quite wrap his head around what just happened. GQ is here. GQ was watching him perform. He just made a complete ass of himself in front of the guy he’s had a crush on for a year and a half. _Oh god._

Sam pulls back, grinning, then frowns when he sees Blaine’s face. “You okay, man? You don’t look so hot.” He gently grabs the back of Blaine’s neck. “This isn’t like after that showcase last year when you puked everywhere, right? Because I’ve got your back either way, but you gotta let me know.”

“I’m not going to throw up,” Blaine says. His legs feel like they’re going to give out any minute. If it weren’t for Sam still practically propping him up, he might already be on the floor. “Can we just…can we sit down?”

He somehow gets himself back to the table and onto a stool. The girls coo over him and offer him water, assuming he’s had too much to drink. Maybe he has. Maybe this is all some whiskey-induced fever dream, and GQ isn’t actually sitting three tables away with his rock star boyfriend, perfect and taken and witness to Blaine’s humiliating melt-down.

Is he a NYADA student? He must be, if he’s here. Or maybe his boyfriend is. God, does he _sing_? With his sweet, high speaking voice, he’d probably be a countertenor. Because god knows he wasn’t exceptional enough with his amazing clothes and stunning face and the graceful confidence of his every move.

Blaine can feel himself spiraling. The alcohol really is catching up with him now, magnifying his usual detached admiration into a miserable, burning ache of want. It cuts like a knife, slicing through him and _twisting_ deep down where he’s lonely and vulnerable. How is this guy so perfect? Why can’t Blaine find someone like him?

It’s crazy. He recognizes that, distantly. He doesn’t know GQ, has never even exchanged words with him. He’s latching onto him because he’s exhausted, and drunk, and because this beautiful nameless stranger can never disappoint him the way he’s been disappointed so, so many times.

He’s just so tired.

He taps Sam’s shoulder to get his attention. “I think I’m going to head out, okay? I’m wiped.”

Sam takes one look at him and stands up, sliding off his stool. “Yeah, good call. I’m pretty beat too.”

It’s a lie, but a kind one. Blaine allows himself the small selfishness of stealing Sam away from his fun night out. He lets Sam pretend he wants to leave; lets him make their excuses to the girls; lets him lead the way out of the bar, slinging a companionable arm around Blaine’s shoulders as they leave Callbacks behind and head off toward home.

+

The next day, when Julie texts him to ask if he’s game for a date with her newest boyfriend’s cousin, he says yes.

+

**DECEMBER**

_Date #20_

Abe (24, went to Princeton with David, research assistant at the New York Fed) is something Blaine has heard of, but never encountered in the flesh: a gay conservative.

Blaine’s not prejudiced, or anything. Some of his best friends are Republicans. (Okay, maybe not _best_ friends. Acquaintances. Former classmates. Most of his dad’s family.) Over the years, he’s endured countless lectures about big government, free markets, welfare fraud, the death tax, and personal responsibility. He politely holds his tongue whenever someone explains to him that they’re just a fiscal conservative, and as far as they’re concerned, people can have all the abortions and gay marriages they want.

He knows that not everyone views the world in the same way, and that people have different priorities, but he really, truly doesn’t understand Log Cabin Republicans. He can’t imagine supporting a party that is actively working to deny your rights.

He and Abe both try to keep things light – honestly, who wants to discuss politics on a first date anyway? But then Blaine makes the mistake of referencing the latest proposal for student loan reform, and Abe argues that the real problem is naïve young people taking on more debt than they can manage to pay for useless liberal arts degrees, and it somehow escalates from there, getting uglier and more heated until they’re practically shouting at each other across the table. Abe accuses Blaine of being an immature, uneducated single-issue voter stumbling blindly after the shiny lure of marriage equality. Blaine calls Abe a selfish, privileged jerk who’s more concerned with the state of his bank account than with basic human rights.

It’s not exactly the most civil date Blaine has ever been on.

Abe pays the whole check (mostly out of spite, Blaine thinks) and leaves as soon as his card comes back. After he’s gone, Blaine just sags in his seat, too defeated to even drag himself home to drown his sorrows in Häagen-Dazs and _Real Housewives of Atlanta_ reruns. He can sense other diners staring at him, probably wondering what the hell his problem is. 

Santana’s story about Jeremy floats through his head, and he cringes, face going hot with a rush of belated shame. Some catch he is, yelling at his date in the middle of a crowded restaurant like a crazy person. At least no one threw any coffee.

A hand drops down onto his shoulder, startling him, and he looks up to see Dani standing there, looking sympathetic. He quickly jumps to his feet. “I’m sorry, I know it’s the dinner rush,” he says, feeling guilty about lingering so long. Can he do _anything_ right tonight?

Instead of kicking him out, though, Dani takes his arm and steers him over to the bar.

“I think _I_ need a drink after that,” she says, nudging him toward a stool. “Old Fashioned, right? Don’t worry, it’s on the house.” She makes eye contact with the bartender, who nods.

Blaine slumps against the bar with his head on his arms. He’s beyond caring how pitiful he looks. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“I like you,” Dani says simply. “You’re a sweet guy, and you can do so much better than some d-bag neocon with bad hair.”

He turns his head to look at her. “Yeah?”

She grins and knocks her shoulder against his. “For sure,” she says. “I’m rooting for you, kid.”

Something clicks in his mind. “You’re Santana’s girlfriend,” he realizes.

Dani winks at him. “I have to get back to work. Have a good night, Blaine.”

A few minutes later, Blaine is moodily nursing his drink when Santana herself appears at his side, sudden and a little startling, as seems to be her M.O. She probably practices sneaking up on people, like a cat stalking birds.

She doesn’t say anything at first, just drops down onto the stool next to his. Blaine watches her out of the corner of his eye, a little nervous, as she settles herself, crossing her legs and smoothing out a wrinkle in her black slacks.

Finally, she turns to him, pinning him with a stare that makes the hairs rise on the back of his neck. “So what’s your deal, hobbit?”

He blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“I mean, it seems pretty straightforward,” she says. “You come dragging in here twice a week to choke down overpriced spaghetti with some new random. You usually don’t even leave with the guy, so you’re not doing it for sex, and you pick up the tab sometimes, so you’re not whoring yourself out for the free meals. The only remaining explanation, as pathetic as it is, is that you really are trying to land yourself a man, and somehow failing miserably at it week after week after week.”

And here Blaine was thinking he’d hit rock-bottom earlier tonight. It turns out there are always greater depths of humiliation to explore.

Santana taps her nails against the bar. “What I can’t figure out is _why_. You seem to be able to string a sentence together, and you’ve never gotten wasted or picked a fight with your server. You clearly have enough money to eat out regularly and keep yourself in those Mr. Rogers sweaters you’re so fond of. You tip well, and my girl likes you, which means you must be able to at least pretend to be a decent person. And sure, you dress like you just skipped out of a Gap Kids commercial, but you’re not a total waste. You’ve got that porn star ass and the lips to match, not to mention the kind of eyelashes some of us have to glue on in the morning. Unless your personality is even worse than your fashion sense, there’s no reason you shouldn’t have bagged some other moon-eyed baby gay to prance off into the sunset with by now.” She eyes him suspiciously. “You’re into some kinky shit, aren’t you? Diapers or fur suits or something.”

“What?” Blaine splutters, horrified. “ _No._ Oh my god, no. I just…” He hesitates, thinking back on all the guys he’s met over the past few months: stoners and cheapskates, bigots and drunks.

“You just?” Santana prompts, nails clicking impatiently.

He shrugs. “I just haven’t met the right guy yet, I guess,” he says lamely.

Santana scoffs. “And who is this mythical Right Guy, Romeo? What’ll it take to meet your exacting standards?”

He looks at her dubiously. “Do you actually care?”

“I’m on a break, and my phone’s dead,” she says. “Besides, I haven’t met my schadenfreude quota for the day. Humor me.”

So Blaine tells her. He tells her that he wants someone he can trust, someone he admires, someone who will kiss him in public and text him about his day and get overly invested in bad TV with him. Someone who likes music and has maybe picked up a book (or at least a magazine) at some point in the past five years. Someone who makes his stomach swoop when their eyes meet. Someone he can imagine sleeping with – not just sex, but _sleeping_ , curled up together in his navy sheets. Someone he wants to wake up to for the rest of his life.

Okay, maybe that last part is kind of a reach. What can he say? He’s a hopeless romantic, and all the crappy blind dates in the world can’t change that. In his heart, he truly believes there’s a man out there that’s just right for him: someone kind and smart and wonderful, who will complement and challenge him, who will stay with him through the hard times and make the good times better. Someone who will fit into his life like a missing puzzle piece and make him whole. Someone –

“Okay, okay, _basta ya_ , I’m gonna hurl,” Santana says, making a face. She flicks Blaine’s empty tumbler with one crimson nail. “Are you always this revoltingly sappy, or are you just a lightweight?”

“Little bit of both,” Blaine admits. He sighs. “It’s just – I know he’s out there, you know? I _know_ it. I just have to find him. And if that means kissing some frogs along the way…well, I guess I better pucker up.”

Santana smirks. “I knew you were into the kinky shit.”

Blaine gazes down at the dregs of ice lingering at the bottom of his glass, suddenly self-conscious about the fact that he’s basically poured out his soul to this woman, like the worst kind of maudlin drunk. “You think I’m crazy now, don’t you?”

“No,” Santana says, surprising him. “I don’t.”

Blaine looks at her quizzically, sure that there’s some scathing indictment coming, but she just stands up and brushes herself off, flicking her braid over her shoulder.

“My break’s over, hair gel. See you next week.”

“Who says I’ll be here next week?” Blaine says.

She snorts. “Of course you will.”

Yeah. Of course he will.

+

_Date #21_

For all his big words about soulmates and perseverance, the truth is that Blaine is starting to reach the end of his patience with this great dating experiment. He’s currently on his way to his twenty-first date in four months, which is ridiculous by any standards. It’s just not fun anymore, if it ever really was. If things don’t pan out with this Eric guy (and statistically speaking, they probably won’t), he’s going to cut his losses and call the whole thing off. Maybe he’s just meant to be single, at least for now.

He gets to Il Canarino a few minutes early, and is surprised to see Santana behind the host stand, staring intently at the computer screen. The hostess herself has been edged slightly to the side, looking equal parts aggrieved and cowed. She does manage to offer Blaine a pleasant smile as he approaches, which is nice. He’s always liked her.

“Hi,” he says. “Anderson, for 7:30?” It’s probably not necessary to check in, since the staff all know him by now, but it seems polite.

“Well, if it isn’t Hard-Luck Homo,” Santana says, giving him an unimpressed once-over. “Back for another round of watered-down drinks and crushing disappointment?”

“Yep,” Blaine says, smiling as cheerfully as he can manage. He’s That Guy; might as well own it. He gestures toward the bar. “I know I’m a little early, I was just gonna – “ 

“Actually, your date is already here,” Santana interrupts. She snatches up a marker and jots something down on what must be the seating chart. “Lucky you, you’re in my section tonight. I’ll take you back.”

The hostess frowns, opens her mouth, and then squeaks loudly, face contorting in what looks suspiciously like pain.

Before Blaine can ask if she’s all right, Santana is spinning away, her long braid whipping behind her. She gestures for him to follow, and he can’t spare more than a sympathetic glance for the hostess as he hurries past. For a woman in four-inch heels, Santana moves _fast_.

The restaurant seems especially busy tonight, crowded with couples and families. Santana leads him through the dining room, then stops abruptly at a two-person table. “Here you are, sir,” she tells him, with an odd tone in her voice. She gestures at the empty chair, and Blaine sinks into it obediently, confused by her sudden formality.

It’s only once he’s seated that he gets a good look at the table’s other occupant – and promptly forgets how to breathe.

It’s GQ. His date is _GQ_.

“Enjoy,” Santana says, and then she’s gone, and Blaine is left alone with GQ, who is looking at him (oh god) and smiling (oh _god_ ). He’s absolutely stunning up close, like a work of art. Blaine can’t believe he’s single. What kind of idiot would ever let a guy like this go?

“Andrew?” GQ says warmly. His smile is so sweet and expectant, and his voice is so lovely, that it takes Blaine several seconds to realize what he’s said.

“Oh,” he says, his heart sinking. “No. I’m not – no.”

GQ’s face falls, and Blaine has to stop himself from blurting out something insane, like: _Just kidding, I’m totally Andrew!_

Or: _I’ll be whoever you want me to be!_

Or: _How do you feel about a spring wedding?_

“I’m guessing you’re not Eric?” he asks instead. His earlier shock has started draining away, leaving him feeling curiously cold.

GQ shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, Santana must have – she gets these ideas in her head sometimes, we can call over one of the other waiters and explain – ”

“I’m Blaine,” Blaine interjects. If he only ever has this one chance, at least he wants to introduce himself. “Blaine Anderson. Not Andrew.” _Stop talking._

“Kurt Hummel,” says GQ – no, _Kurt_. He seems to hesitate, and then adds, “It’s very nice to meet you, Blaine. Even if you’re not Andrew.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Blaine replies, in what he hopes is a convincingly neutral voice. He flails around for something, anything to keep him sitting here at this table, exchanging words with this painfully attractive man. “You know Santana?”

Kurt rolls his eyes. “She’s my roommate.”

Oh. _Oh._

Blaine looks at Kurt’s beautiful, apologetic face, and at his elegant hands, fidgeting with his napkin roll. He thinks about Santana’s sudden interest in his love life, and the way Kurt smiled when he saw him – like he was genuinely happy to see him, like he was glad it was _Blaine_ instead of someone else. He thinks about the disappointment on Kurt’s face when he admitted he wasn’t Andrew.

“I…I don’t have to go,” he says cautiously. Kurt looks puzzled, and Blaine scrambles to come up with a persuasive excuse. “I mean, um. We’re already sitting down, right? And the servers are all pretty busy, and – and – “

Kurt raises his eyebrows. “And…?”

Blaine swallows. “And I want to have dinner with you.”

The corner of Kurt’s mouth twitches. “Is that so?” he says. “You’d abandon poor Eric?”

“In a heartbeat,” Blaine says, maybe a bit too honestly.

Kurt gives him a considering look. “And why would you do a thing like that?”

There’s something teasing in his voice, a certain coyness in the tilt of his head, and Blaine just completely loses his mind.

“Okay, look, the thing is, I’ve noticed you before,” he says in a rush. “Not like I’m following you, or anything, it’s just a few times our paths have crossed and – I see you at Starbucks sometimes, the one near Columbus Circle? And at Callbacks once, a couple weeks ago, and I swear I’m not a stalker, it’s just that you’re basically the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever seen, so you kind of stick in my head, which, god, is probably exactly what a stalker would say – I’m sorry, I’m obviously terrible at this, please feel free to jump in and save me from myself at any time.”

“In a minute,” Kurt says. He’s smiling again, amused and maybe a little wicked, studying Blaine’s face with a sharp, intense gaze. It’s starting to become clear why he and Santana are friends.

Blaine takes a drink of his ice water to keep himself from launching back into his explanation of why he’s _totally not a creep_ even though he definitely sounds like one. And then another, longer drink, this time because he can feel his cheeks going hot from the way Kurt’s looking at him, and he kind of thinks he might pass out if Kurt doesn’t say something soon.

“I remember you from Callbacks,” Kurt says finally.

Blaine coughs around a mouthful of water. He is really in fine form tonight. “You…do?”

“You sang Katy Perry.” Kurt laughs a little. “You forgot the words to Katy Perry.”

“Oh,” Blaine manages. “That, um. That was your fault, actually.”

Kurt’s smile widens. “You want to know something, Blaine Anderson?” He leans forward, conspiratorial, and Blaine follows suit, drawn in helplessly by the pull of Kurt’s sparkling blue eyes.

Of course he wants to know. He wants to know anything Kurt is willing to tell him.

Kurt glances very deliberately down at Blaine’s mouth, then back to his eyes, and says in a low voice, “If I’d known you were single, I would have thrown myself at you the second you walked off that stage.”

The restaurant is noisy, as always, a loud hum of conversation and clanking silverware, but Blaine’s pretty sure everyone for miles around can hear the cartoon _zing!_ of his heart.

He can’t even respond, at first, just sits there beaming like an idiot, feeling his eyes going all scrunchy. Kurt doesn’t seem to mind, though. He smiles back, cheeks tinted pink, and it’s beautiful, and _he’s_ beautiful, and Blaine has never felt like this about a guy before, not ever.

And then his brain kicks back into gear, and he frowns, confused.

“Wait, you thought I wasn’t single? Why?” He’s dismayed at the thought that he could have had this weeks ago. He’s missed out on a whole month of Kurt smiling at him.

“I thought you were with your friend,” Kurt says. “The blond one.”

Blaine’s jaw drops. “ _Sam_? No, Sam is – he’s straight, like super straight.”

“With that hair?” Kurt says skeptically.

“Super straight,” Blaine repeats. “Oh my god, this is like some kind of cosmic joke. Sam’s my best friend, he’s – god, he’s the reason I’ve gone on all these stupid awful dates with dumb guys who weren’t _you_.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have said that last part out loud.

Kurt’s eyes go wide. “You’re the guy,” he breathes, looking stunned.

Blaine frowns again. “I’m – what? What guy?” And then it hits him. His blood runs cold. “Oh. Oh, no, no, no, please tell me Santana didn’t – “

Kurt waves a dismissive hand. “No, she hates this place, she never talks about work. But Dani – oh, honey, calm down, it’s nothing bad. She’s just mentioned you once or twice, mostly to talk about whatever loser you’d been saddled with that night. Only good things about you, I swear. She’s never even said your name.”

Blaine’s brain can only process two thoughts: Kurt knows about his humiliating dating history, and Kurt just called him _honey_. He doesn’t know which of those is making him blush harder.

“If it makes you feel any better, I always thought you sounded like you deserved better than the guys you got set up with,” Kurt offers. He looks a little embarrassed himself, like he regrets bringing the subject up at all. He certainly doesn’t look like he’s about to run off screaming – so really, what does it matter? Maybe it’s better that he already knows. At least now Blaine won’t have to figure out how to awkwardly divulge it later.

Blaine forces himself to take a deep, steadying breath. “Yes, well,” he says. “It seems that my luck has recently taken a turn for the better.”

Kurt’s smile returns, just as lovely as before. “Mine, too.” He bites his lip, and then nudges his water glass out of the way and lays his hand down right in the middle of the table, palm up: a clear invitation.

Blaine slips his own hand into Kurt’s. It’s a tiny bit sweaty, and his fingers are trembling a little, but that’s okay, because Kurt’s are too. They fold their hands together, sweaty palms and shaky fingers and all.

Blaine squeezes, gently. Kurt squeezes back.

 _Oh_ , Blaine thinks, feeling lightheaded. _There you are._

It suddenly occurs to him that the woman responsible for all this has been suspiciously MIA for several minutes now. He glances around; Santana is nowhere to be found, but he does spot Dani blatantly gawking at them from the far end of the dining room. She’s grinning ear to ear, and gives him an exaggerated double thumbs-up when she sees him looking.

He grins sheepishly in response and looks back at Kurt. “Do you maybe want to get out of here? No offense to your friends, but I wouldn’t mind doing this without an audience. And our real dates are going to show up at some point.”

“You are my real date,” Kurt says, with a sort of offhand confidence that makes Blaine’s heart flutter. “But sure, where to?”

“There’s a coffee shop down the street? They do live music in the evenings, I’ve played there a couple times, and it’s pretty relaxed.” He dares to stroke his thumb over Kurt’s knuckles. “They do a great mocha. You’ll love it.”

Kurt arches one immaculate eyebrow. “You know my coffee order?” he inquires, and Blaine immediately wants to sink into the floor.

Kurt seems more amused than alarmed, though, and he hasn’t let go of Blaine’s hand. So Blaine dredges up the tattered remnants of his dignity and says, “Of course I do,” trying his very best to sound like a suave, charming gentleman and not a mortified secret admirer who’s just lucked into the opportunity of a lifetime.

If the smirk that twists Kurt’s lips is any indication, he’s got Blaine’s number. But he plays along anyway, releasing Blaine’s hand with a parting squeeze and rising gracefully to his feet. He even allows Blaine to help him into his coat, which of course is spectacular and suits him perfectly.

“Is this Balmain?” Blaine asks, impressed.

“It is,” Kurt confirms. He winds a gorgeous cashmere scarf around his considerably more gorgeous neck, and shoots Blaine a pleased look. “You have a good eye.”

Blaine brushes a speck of invisible lint from Kurt’s shoulder. “I do,” he agrees, looking up from under his eyelashes, and they stand there smiling at each other until Santana breezes past and tells them to get the hell out of her section before they make her _real_ customers sick.

Blaine makes sure to say goodbye to the hostess on the way out. Something tells him he won’t be back here for a long, long time.

+

_Date #1_

It’s snowing when they leave the coffee shop. Blaine is barely aware of it, all of his attention still focused squarely on Kurt (23, Vogue.com editorial assistant, NYADA alum, the most perfect man on the face of the planet). A meteor could strike right now and he wouldn’t notice.

They step clear of the entrance and turn to each other, standing a few inches closer than is strictly polite. Kurt looks like he’s about to say something, but Blaine has been staring at him for hours now, increasingly mesmerized by the way his lips move when he talks, and he physically can’t restrain himself one minute more.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I just, I need to – “ and he brings a hand up to cradle Kurt’s jaw and kisses him, right there in the middle of the sidewalk.

It’s a cold, blustery night. The wind gusts around them, whipping snow against their backs, but Blaine can’t feel anything beyond the warmth of Kurt’s soft lips on his, the brush of smooth leather as Kurt’s gloved hand settles against his cheek.

He has no idea how long it lasts. One moment they’re kissing; the next, he’s blinking dazedly at the wide bow of Kurt’s mouth, one hand at Kurt’s waist and the other resting on his chest.

Kurt fusses with the loose ends of Blaine’s scarf, tucking them carefully around his neck. His cheeks have gone a wonderful shade of pink.

“Come back to my place?” he says, toying with the lapel of Blaine's coat. “To talk, or…anything.” He offers Blaine a shy, utterly devastating little smile. “I’m not ready to let go of you yet.”

 _Joke’s on you_ , Blaine thinks. _You’re never getting rid of me now._

“Okay,” he says. “Yes. Absolutely, yes. I’d love to.”

Kurt kisses him again, short and sweet, just enough to feel the happy curve of his lips. His hand slides down Blaine’s arm to twine their fingers together. “This way,” he says, and they walk off together into the dark, snowy night, hand in hand.


End file.
